Page 65 of The Midnight Lock (Lincoln Rhyme 14)

The group sounded despicable, but a crime was a crime.

Whittaker asked, “And with what he posted on social media, asking who’ll be next, he’s going to keep going?”

“We have to assume that.”

Joanna closed her eyes briefly. “And think what would happen if a victim woke up when he was there.”

Sachs said, “We should assume that he”—a glance toward Spencer, thinking of his earlier gender comment—“or she is targeting not only the company but you personally. You should be aware of any threats. Anyone following, observing you.” Pointing toward the mantel, Sachs said, “That picture is of you and your wife?”

Whittaker replied, “Yes. Mary passed a few years ago.”

“Who’s the young man in it?”

“My son, Kitt.” A deep breath. “We’re estranged. He’s been out of touch for eight months or so.”

Sachs could now see a different kind of pain in the man’s eyes. “Do either of you talk to him?” she asked Joanna and Kemp.

His niece and her fiancé shook their heads.

Sachs got his mobile number and then asked, “You have a work number for him?”

There was a pause. Joanna said, “We don’t actually know what he does. He’s a lost soul. When we were in touch, it seemed like he jumped from job to job: he was going to do something for the environment, then he was going to fly commercial drones—”

Kemp said, “Then it was gas and oil leases, remember? And something about videography and computers.”

Whittaker said, “I’m sure nothing came of them. I have no idea what he’s doing now. Probably living off his trust fund.”

“Social media?”

Joanna said, “He doesn’t have any accounts. Doesn’t trust them—ordidn’t.”

She asked the woman and her fiancé if they worked for Whittaker Media too. Joanna did, but not on the media side. She ran the company’s charitable foundation. Kemp worked in real estate on Wall Street.

Sachs supposed they weren’t in as much danger as Whittaker or the journalists on the paper, but still advised them to be watchful as well.

Spencer’s phone sounded and he read a text. He replied. “Doug Hubert’s got the threat list compiled. We can pick it up now. I can take you over there.”

Sachs handed out cards to each of them. “Please, call me if you can think of anything else.” Pocketing the recorder and pad and pen, she walked to the door with Spencer, and both nodded goodbye to Alicia Roberts, the quiet woman guard.

They were in the alcove when she heard, “One minute, Detective.” Whittaker was up and walking after them slowly, listing into his cane. He glanced at Spencer, who got the message and said, “I’ll be in the hall.”

He said, “Detective, this is … I know we don’t know each other from Adam, but I want to say one thing. I don’t have a lot of time left. And my only son’s become a stranger to me. I haven’t been the best father … No, I’ve been a terrible father. I want him in my life again, to try to make up for what I’ve done. If you find him, could you tell him that? It’s not your business, I understand, but …”

“I will.”

His face softened in gratitude. He turned away, but not before Sachs caught a glint of what might be tears in his eyes.

“Excuse me.”

Sachs was on Park Avenue, heading toward the north side of Whittaker Tower, which was the business entrance to WMG. Lyle Spencer was at her side.

They had just made their way through a small crowd of protesters outside Whittaker Tower. The majority of signs took aim at fake news, some about diversity hiring.

She glanced back at the voice.

The man, wearing blue jeans and a black windbreaker, had a lean face framed with curly dark hair. Sideburns. The word “ferret” came to mind.

“Excuse me, Officer Sachs.”

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